In The Library
by Quesarasara
Summary: There are so few places Sherlock feels at ease, but this library feels like home. He likes the solitude, takes comfort in the quiet. He may not have friends, but he's got books-and that's just as good, isn't it? Better even. And then one day John Watson walks in, and everything changes...
1. CHAPTER 1: (021)

**CHAPTER 1: (021): Relationships of Libraries, Archives & Information Centers**

"Are you sure they were headed this way?" the voice half-whispers, high and breathy with barely contained excitement.

"I think so," another girlish voice replies gleefully from three ( _no_ , _two_ ) aisles to the left of his regular study carrel sandwiched between the medieval history collection and the rows of pathetically out of date atlases gathering dust in the stacks. "I saw him come in just as I was leaving the nurse's office. He told the school secretary he was here to see Mrs. Hudson, and I passed her in the hall on her way to fetch him!"

"How do you know she was bringing him here?" Titters a third girl, her voice growing breathless as she tries to keep up with her friends as the group comes even closer before stopping just one aisle away.

Lifting his chin and gazing over the uneven tops of the neat row of books on the shelf just above his desk and through to the other side, he can see the backs of three heads ( _brunette, brunette pretending to be a blond, redhead pretending to be brunette_ ) attached to three necks ( _one long and tan—recent beach holiday judging by the small patch of lighter skin revealed by a sunburn that peeled away, one short and pale—sporting the freckles she can't cover up with concealer like those on her cheeks, and one of average length—unremarkable but for the edge of the purpling love bite peeking just above the collar of her school uniform jumper_ ) attached to three girls ( _fifth years, popular, vapid and useless_ ) clustered around the end of one of the long rows of bookshelves that fan out around the circulation desk in the center of the library like spokes on a wheel.

"Mrs. Hudson is the _librarian_ , Marjorie," the first girl snaps, exasperation coloring her reply. "Where else would she be taking him?"

"I don't know, Dora," Marjorie shoots back defensively. "Melody didn't hear anything about them coming to the library. Could be taking him lots of places."

"Fit thing like that," Melody purrs, "he could take _me_ anywhere he wanted _."_

"That's because you're a slag, Mel," Dora says, rolling her eyes and tossing her curtain of dark hair carelessly over a slim shoulder, smacking Marjorie full in the face with it in the process.

"Oi, watch it Dor—" Marjorie huffs, spitting out strands of hair that have adhered to her sticky, overglossed lips.

"Shhhh!" Melody hisses, putting a finger to her mouth to quiet her friends and pushing them back out of the line of sight as the heavy glass door to the library swishes open.

"Here we are!" The librarian says brightly, the three hiding girls growing still and silent as they peer between the shelves to sneak a look at the two people who've just entered the large, airy space.

"So _this_ is where you spend all your time," a voice answers ( _male, fairly young, pleasant and masculine with just a hint of a Welsh accent coloring the vowels, not a Londoner by birth but not a brand new resident of the city either)_. "It's a fair bit bigger than I'd imagined it would be."

"Yes, I suppose it is a bit grand for a secondary school of this size," Mrs. Hudson agrees affably. "But we were lucky enough to be the beneficiary of quite a generous donation a few years back, including a very large collection of both new and rare volumes as well as a healthy endowment that came with the express intent that the funds be used to upgrade and maintain the library."

"Impressive gift," the man replies. "My old school library seems like a broom closet full of paperbacks and a mouldy old set of encyclopaedias compared to this place. Alumnus with a soft spot for the old alma matter, eh?"

"Not a former student, no," the librarian answers vaguely. "A fine young man, though—in charge of a sizeable family trust, with a great respect for knowledge and a certain amount of gratitude to the school for…well, for being so welcoming to gifted students."

"A huge amount of gratitude, I'd say," the young man responds, his voice receding and rising again ( _turning slowly in place, no doubt taking in the tall polished walnut shelves stuffed with thousands of volumes, the state of the art computer terminals tucked into well-appointed study nooks, and the cozy seating areas arranged with comfortable leather armchairs and settees_ ). "I can see why you love coming to work every day."

"And you'll love it too, John," Mrs. Hudson says warmly.

"I think I will," the man ( _John_ ) agrees, a smile evident in his voice. "Thanks again for this, Mrs. H. You're doing me a big favor with this job, and I won't forget it."

"Oh nonsense, dear. It's you who is doing _me_ the favor," the woman insists. "Nearly two years on from the renovations and we've still got over half the inventory in the Holmes collection left to catalog and shelve. I've been thinking of hiring on a part time assistant for months, and it's lucky you've got the time now."

"Yeah," John replies, his tone bright but tinged with something hesitant ( _Disappointment? Regret? Not enough data…_ ). "Lucky indeed."

"All right then," Mrs. Hudson continues brightly. "The first afternoon bell should be ringing here in just a few minutes, why don't you go on and leave your coat here behind the desk, and I'll show you around the building and introduce you to the rest of the staff."

There's the swish of fabric being peeled off and dropped over a chair, then idle chatter and footsteps that exit back out the library door that swishes softly shut behind them.

Followed immediately by a shrill, high pitched, ear-splitting _squeal_.

Followed immediately by two more.

From his vantage point behind the three girls, he presses a finger to his ear and shakes his head in an attempt to clear the ringing now echoing through his skull.

"Oh my god!" Dora Lancaster exclaims. "You were right, Mel."

"Of course I was," Melody scolds, pulling out her mobile phone and sliding her fingertip quickly over the screen. "I always _am_. I told you he was hot."

"I'll never doubt you again," Dora says, turning to lean against the shelf and fanning herself dramatically with her hand.

"How old do you think he is?" Marjorie asks, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright.

"Who cares?" Melody says with a shrug, her thumbs tapping furiously on her phone. "He's older than any of the little _boys_ at this school—and that's all that matters to me." She punctuates the last word with a final tap of her finger against her mobile phone, finishing the movement with a small flourish.

He rolls his eyes and stares back down at his notes where they're spread before him.

A fraction of a second later, three text alerts chime in near unison.

 ** _*ping*_**

 ** _*ping*_**

 ** _*ping*_**

At the same moment, another (silent) alert brightens the screen of the mobile phone on the table in front of him. He looks down to see that a text has arrived, the words _"NEW CONFESSION!"_ appearing on the screen.

Glancing up between the shelves, he watches the three girls read the same message, then lowers his gaze again to his own phone and swipes through his apps until he finds the acid green skull, a small number "1" floating on the top right corner of the icon. He taps it and the screen goes black, and a message begins to appear one letter at a time, as though it's being typed out:

 ** _iConfess: The new library assistant is HOT! He can check me out and take me home ANY TIME._**

There's a second round of high pitched squealing from the girls in the next aisle, and Sherlock looks down at his phone in time to see the message that just appeared begin to pull out of focus before the letters explode in a shower of white sparks and his home screen pops abruptly back into view.

"Melody!" Dora exclaims, laughing. "I can't believe you just did that!"

"Everyone in school is going to read that!" Marjorie says, her voice shrill and her eyes wide.

"I bloody well hope so," Melody says with a grin, shrugging and slipping her mobile back into the side pocket of her pleated uniform skirt. "There's a new gorgeous, blond, blue-eyed bloke in the building—that's the kind of thing students at this school have a right to _know_."

"But what if people find out you're the one who said it?" Marjorie asks, worrying nervously at her bottom lip with her front teeth.

"How would they find that out?" Melody inquires, narrowing her eyes suspiciously at the shorter girl. "Are you going to tell people it was me?"

"Of course not!" Marjorie says, shaking her head emphatically. "I would never do that!"

"Are you sure?" Melody asks, her tone affecting a nasty snarl as she steps toward her friend. "Because you and me and Dora are the only ones who know it was me that sent that confession, and you seem pretty worried that everyone will find out."

"They can't find out who sent it, Marjie," Dora says, stepping between her friends, rolling her eyes and raising a hand to fend off Melody's impatient retort. "That's sort of the whole point of "iConfess" isn't it? You type in your confession, everyone sees it, and then it self destructs. Totally anonymous. Everyone knows that."

"Right, yeah, Okay," Marjorie says quickly, then smiles at her friends. "Sorry, I just forgot."

"That's all right," Dora says kindly, reaching out and squeezing her friend's shoulder. "Besides, the three of us are best friends— _forever_. We'd never betray each other. Right?"

"Right," Melody and Marjorie answer in tandem.

He tries to hold in the laughter. He _really_ does. And to be fair, he doesn't laugh.

He _snorts_.

Three heads whip around in his direction and he ducks quickly—but not fast enough. The soft thunder of angry feet on carpet echoes in his ears, and in moments the three girls have rounded the end of the shelf and are bearing down on him where he sits.

" _You_!" Melody snarls, stomping toward him and stopping just a few feet away. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I _was_ studying," he answers coolly, calmly gesturing one pale, long fingered hand at the chemistry notes spread out before him on the desk. "Until I was interrupted."

"You were spying on us!" Dora accuses angrily.

"Oh, is _that_ was it's called when one huddles behind bookcases peeking through shelves at people who don't know they're being observed?" He says, peering at them innocently. "I was _wondering_ how one might define that particular act. Thanks ever so much for the clarification."

"I don't know what you think you heard, but—"

"Oh come now, Melody," he says, dismissing her indignation with a careless wave of his fingers and a pointed roll of his eyes as he turns his attention back to the desk. "I know exactly what I heard, I am not deaf, you know—though you gave it a good go at making me so, what with all the screeching."

"You better keep your mouth shut, freak!" Dora hisses, stepping up beside Melody and staring down at him.

"Oh don't worry," he drawls, affecting his most uninterested tone. "Your secret is safe with me."

"It better be," Dora says, puffing out her chest and trying to sound tough. "Though it don't matter if you say anything or not, nobody with half a brain bothers listening to _you_."

" _Doesn't_ matter, Dora. Do at least attempt not to butcher the very language born in the same country you were," he begins, then sighs heavily as she begins to reply indignantly. "Oh never mind, I don't expect you to listen to my advice, given your very astute observation that half-brained people rarely ever do. Good Lord, the admissions standards for this esteemed educational institution really are abominably lax."

"Yeah," Melody says with an icy smile. "I hear they'll let _anyone_ in this place. All it costs is one brand new library."

"That's right," Dora chimes in. "At least none of us had to have our families _buy_ our way into this school."

"Is that so?" Sherlock inquires, his tone light and curious. "Are you under the mistaken impression that the very large cheque your father writes each semester is some sort of selfless charitable contribution?"

"That's different," Dora replies, looking slightly confused. "That's for _tuition_."

"You do know what that word means, don't you?" Sherlock asks, head tilting and brow knitted thoughtfully.

"Of course she does," Marjorie joins in indignantly, stepping up next to the other two girls and adding a third hostile glare to those already directed his way.

"I think not," Sherlock replies, crisply punctuating each terminal consonant. "But as luck would have it, there's a very fine selection of dictionaries shelved not fifteen feet from here. If you'd like to pop over and confirm that the word tuition is _literally_ defined as " _the charge or fee for admission and instruction as at a private school or college or university"_ have at it. I'll be right here, ready accept your apology on the matter."

"Why should I apologize to you, freak?"

"Let's see," he begins, listing her offenses and ticking each off with a flick of an elegant finger. "For your abysmal understanding of the English language, for attempting to impugn the honor of my family name, for subjecting me to your inane ramblings over a random stranger you proceeded to stalk the moment you laid eyes on, and for you and your pathetic little friends being so generally uninteresting that I'm too bored to continue with this list. Take your pick."

"At least we've got friends," Marjorie chimes in, and the other two girls smirk their approval.

"Too right, Marjie," Melody agrees, lifting her chin to stare down her nose at him. "Look at you, all alone, surrounded by your stupid books and papers, skulking around the library spying on private conversations. You're the pathetic one here. You should be apologizing to _us_."

"There's one _slight_ problem with that scenario, Melody," he replies, with a tight smile. "I'm not sorry."

"Oh yeah?" she says, her pretty face twisted into a viciously unattractive sneer. "You WILL be."

Melody turns on her heel and begins storming away, one hand reaching into her pocket and retrieving her mobile as she goes. The other two girls hesitate for just a moment before each throws a disdainful glance his way then follows her out of the stacks and through the door. He stands there for a moment, the library quiet and still and deserted around him, wondering exactly how "sorry" such a dull excuse for a human being could possibly be capable of making him—when a flash of light from the surface of the desk catches his eye.

 ** _NEW CONFESSION!_**

 _Oh. Of course._

Looking down at his mobile, he swipes until he sees the green skull with the new message indicator. Tapping it, he eyes the screen suspiciously as the following text appears:

 ** _iConfess: Sherlock Holmes is a faggot and a FREAK!_**

He stares at the words as they begin to fade before bursting into the customary shower of sparks and disappearing from view. He shakes his head ruefully, dark curls spilling carelessly over his smooth, pale forehead. _This_ is Melody Harrison's grand revenge? An anonymous jab on the app of the moment that every Morningside Academy student will likely tap on and see flashed across their devices—and then just as likely forget before the last sparks of the message disappear from the screen?

How _boring_.

And hardly a crushing blow, really. Interpersonal relationships may not be his area, but even _he_ understands that if you're going to start a hateful rumor with the intent of causing your victim the maximum amount of pain and embarrassment—at least make sure it isn't something that everyone already _knows_.

With a sigh, he stands up and slips his mobile into his front trouser pocket then begins gathering up his assorted papers and books. Normally he wouldn't clear out this early in the day, preferring to pass his afternoons in the relative safety and seclusion the library provides him. It's the one place (outside of the makeshift laboratory he's assembled over the years and secreted away in the fourth floor attic space above his bedroom, the location of which not even his chubby git of a brother has sussed out and taken away from him in the name of "fire safety" or some such nonsense. Yet, anyway.) that he actually _likes_ to be. It feels like home to him.

As well it should, really.

His insufferable brother paid quite a hefty sum for it, after all, from the trust their parents left in his care (along with one younger, and rather incorrigible as it turns out, brother seven years his junior) when they passed away five years ago. Five years, three months, fourteen days, three boarding schools, two expulsions and one rather unfortunate incident involving a pair of skunks roaming into a dining hall filled to capacity on parents visiting weekend (that no one had ever been able to _definitively_ tie to him thank you very much _)_ to be exact.

Along with the monetary gift Mycroft Holmes had bestowed upon the school at Sherlock's unorthodox mid-term admittance to Morningside two years ago, there was also quite a large donation of books and furniture and fixtures from the impressive library that sprawled over the east wing of the manor home in Cornwall where both Holmes boys were born and spent their childhoods. When it became clear that a boarding school education wasn't quite the right fit for his younger brother, the elder Holmes sibling closed up the house and moved everything—including Sherlock—to the family's second home in London. Much of his father's extensive library found a new home on the third floor of the massive town house on Highgate Road, a large amount of the volumes were donated to several deserving charitable organizations and archival museums, and a very respectable number of the best and most useful items made their way here—to the renovated school library on the northeast corner of the second floor of Morningside Academy.

Sherlock is starting to forget his mother's hands, her easy smile, the ever present scent of roses and rich, dark soil that hung around her all summer long, and the feel of her soft lips against his crown as she tucked him in at night. He can't quite remember the color of his father's eyes, the exact sound of his booming laugh, or the faint scratch of tweed against his weary cheek resting against a broad shoulder as strong arms carried him up to bed.

But the smell of binding cloth, the feel of ancient parchment maps unrolling, the sigh of worn stuffed leather chairs, the warmth of a broad lap as a large hand encouraged him to turn the pages with his tiny fingers, and the timbre of a deep voice giving life to letters inked over countless pages…these things he remembers with astonishing clarity. And when he stands in this place, it seems possible that he will never forget.

Tucked here between towering shelves stuffed full of hundreds of years of knowledge on tens of thousands of pages filled with hundreds of thousands of words made up of millions of individual letters—Sherlock Holmes _fits_.

He's nearly finished gathering up and packing away his schoolwork when he hears a door swish open followed by two sets of feet ( _one clad in slightly worn trainers, the other in sensible kitten heels_ ) entering the library. He pauses where he stands, slowly pulling the flap of his messenger bag closed before he silently loops the strap over his head and threads one arm through the gap, listening intently.

"You'll spend most of your time here, of course," Mrs. Hudson says cheerily as she and her companion walk toward the large circular desk at the center of the room. "But you're free to use the staff areas if you'd like, and you'll be doing a fair amount of moving boxes out of storage and dragging them up here so we can finally take a proper inventory. That won't be a problem, will it?"

"I don't think so," the other voice ( _John_ ) replies.

"Because there's a handcart available, of course," the librarian continues, her voice softening a bit. "And there's no shame in taking several trips if it's easier for you to—"

"I'll be _fine_ , Mrs. H.," the man says, a bit more loudly than he'd likely intended to if the slightly uncomfortable pause and small cough that follows is any indication. "Really, it won't be a problem. I promise I'll take it as easy as I need to, all right?"

"All right, dear," Mrs. Hudson says kindly, no doubt reaching out and laying her hand softly on the man's shoulder in a sincere display of motherly affection. "You know best."

Sherlock smiles to himself, imagining the look on the stranger's face after being on the receiving end of one of Martha Hudson's maternal moments. He knows from experience that while you may _want_ to be taken aback by the contact ( _you are practically a grown man, after all_ ) and might even actually have case for _being_ so ( _this woman isn't your mother, for heaven's sake_ )—there's something rather lovely about the sincerity of the gesture that makes you forget very quickly that you ought to be offended. It's diabolical, really.

"Is the library always this empty?" John asks her, his voice even and pleasant once again.

"On most days, it's fairly quiet," Mrs. Hudson says, a note of regret in her voice. "We get quite a lot more traffic when teachers assign research projects, and things pick up a bit during exams week each semester."

"It's such a lovely space, though," John says, his voice fading a bit as he starts to walk around the common area and examine the seating areas and computer terminals. "It's a shame that it doesn't get used more."

"It really is," Mrs. Hudson agrees. "But it seems that libraries hold less appeal for young people when they've got instant access to all the information they could ever need tucked away in their pocket."

"I suppose that's true," John agrees with a smile in his voice. "My mum always told my sister and I that she didn't know why we kept calling them 'phones' when she'd never once heard us actually speak to another person on them."

" _My_ mother used to go on endlessly about how I spent all my time crouched in the hallway with the one half of the phone pressed up against my ear and an endless stream of nonsense rattling out of my mouth and into the other," Mrs. Hudson sighs. "Time makes relics of us all, John."

"True enough," John agrees amiably, and after a short pause there's the sound of a hand thumping against something solid, a slight creak as fingertips pull against a slick surface and the unmistakable whoosh of a stationary object suddenly in motion—and in his mind Sherlock can see the large, ornate globe rotating on its axis just as clearly as it had when he'd set it spinning himself in the library of his childhood home next to his father's favorite chair. "But this here is a work of art as much as a map of the world. Can't get this on a smartphone."

"Oh actually you can, dear," Mrs. Hudson tells him with a sigh. "There's an app for that."

Sherlock hears a soft exhalation of breath followed by a huff of laughter that starts low and slow and rich, and then morphs into something that can only be described as a… _giggle_. As he listens to the sound float through the air toward him, Sherlock feels a strange fluttering in his stomach—the corner of his lips twitching reflexively as if to join in.

Which is preposterous, of course. He's definitely not going to start laughing at something Mrs. Hudson said to someone he doesn't know just because that someone is laughing. It wasn't even that _funny_. But when the laugh ends, and the fluttering in Sherlock's stomach fades, there's a strange emptiness left in its place—and he's struck by the sudden thought that he wishes he could hear it _again_.

"So you've had the tour, we've talked a bit about what your duties will be-Oh!" Mrs. Hudson says, and Sherlock hears her run her palms softly over the lines of her blouse and skirt to smooth them before beginning to walk in his direction. "Sherlock, love—come out and meet John, the new library assistant."

Sherlock freezes in place, holding his breath and staying very, very still.

"Who's Sherlock?" John asks, and his footsteps begin to cross the floor in the same direction that Mrs. Hudson's are moving—directly towards him.

It's not that Sherlock is in the habit of avoiding Mrs. Hudson. Quite the opposite, really. He's quite fond of the woman, to be honest—and not just because she makes the best raspberry jam biscuits in the world and never forgets to bring him a packet of them each week now that she knows they're his favorite. Or because she actually listens to him when he speaks, and doesn't just pretend to. Or because she gave him his own key to the library after she'd found him attempting to pick the lock one morning when she was running late. Or because she's always been kind to him, not because she had to be—but because she actually _likes_ him.

Or maybe for _all_ those reasons, really.

He doesn't know why he suddenly doesn't want her to know he's been here and listening this whole time…he just _doesn't_.

"Oh, Sherlock comes with the library, John," Mrs. Hudson says playfully.

"A student?" John asks, the volume of his voice increasing as they grow nearer to where he's standing.

"Sixth former," the librarian confirms, her voice warm. "Spends a lot of time here. If he's not in class, you can find him tucked away back here with his nose in some book or another. And frankly he's here even when he should be in class—bit of a sticking point with some of the teachers but he gets top marks in every subject, so they can't complain really. He always sits right…"

There's a pause as Mrs. Hudson and her new assistant round the end of the shelf and find the aisle empty, the desktop surface of his regular study carrel bare and the desk lamp switched off.

"That's odd," Martha Hudson says as she regards the empty chair. "I could have sworn he was still here, he's hardly ever gone home this early in the afternoon."

Sherlock clutches his bag tightly to his stomach, his back pressed up against the end of the shelf one aisle away, and listens as Mrs. Hudson continues.

"He's a lovely young man," she says fondly. "Smart as a whip, with a wit to match. He's a bit of a loner, doesn't mix much with the other children—he transferred in from another school a few years back, and you know how kids are, always so reluctant to let someone new join in the fun. Well, you'll meet him soon enough, I'm sure."

"I look forward to it," John tells her, and it strikes Sherlock that he actually sounds as though he means it.

With one slow, graceful turn, Sherlock pivots around the far edge of the bookcase and stretches his neck slightly to peer between the shelves just in time to see a shock of golden blond hair disappear down the end of the aisle and back out into the library common area.

"All right then," Sherlock hears Mrs. Hudson say to her companion. "Let's take a walk down to the storage room and I'll show you which crates we can get started with when you come in tomorrow."

"Sounds like a plan," John agrees amiably, his voice fading and growing dim as the library door softly swings shut behind him.

Sherlock lets out the breath he's been holding in one steady, loud huff and pulls in another, enjoying the rush of air into his oxygen starved lungs. After a length of time just long enough that, by his calculations, Mrs. Hudson and her new assistant should be far enough away that he can slip out unnoticed, he walks to the end of the aisle and pauses for a moment. He cocks an ear, listening for approaching voices or footsteps, and hearing none he steps out in the center of the library.

He looks around him—at the familiar furnishings and rows of volumes on the shelves, and breathes in the dust and comforting smell of old books...but the silence and solitude doesn't seem to sit as easily with him as it normally does. He tightens the shoulder strap of his bag around him, and as he walks toward the door the ghost of a sneering voice echoes softly in his head:

 _Look at you, all alone, surrounded by your stupid books and papers, skulking around the library spying on private conversations. You're the pathetic one here._

His shoulders slumping slightly, he presses on the handle and slips out the door.


	2. Chapter 2: (541)

**CHAPTER 2: (541): Physical & Theoretical Chemistry**

Staring through the tinted glass, Sherlock watches the scenery change as tree lined walkways flanking stately city homes gradually give way to wide, unadorned sidewalks in front of the incongruous jumble of modern sky scrapers and historical buildings that line the streets of downtown London.

It's early enough yet that the car glides easily through the city, the morning traffic beginning to increase in volume but still moving at a steady clip for the moment. A glance down at his mobile confirms that this particular trip from Highgate Road to Morningside Academy is progressing at precisely the pace it normally does—just as he knew it would. He'd carefully timed his appearance at the top of the main staircase to coincide with the _exact_ moment that his insufferable older brother's infinite patience began to wear thin, yet just _before_ said brother would feel compelled to lecture him (again) on the predictably exponential relationship between each minute Sherlock delays them from leaving the house and the amount of additional transit time it will tack on to their journey. His precision had been rewarded by the grim set of Mycroft's jaw as he glared at him before looking pointedly at his terribly tasteful (and obscenely expensive) watch.

"How generous of you to grace us with your presence this morning, brother," Mycroft had said wearily, fingertips sliding idly over the polished walnut handle of the umbrella in his hand before clutching it under one arm and turning to take the briefcase and stainless steel travel mug from the uniformed woman standing next to him, then striding purposefully to the door.

Sherlock descended the last few stairs and paused for a moment in the marble foyer. Soft footsteps crossed to meet him, and he looked up to see a second silver mug being extended in his direction.

"Two sugars?" Sherlock had asked as he reached for the proffered beverage.

" _Three_ ," their housekeeper whispered, shooting him a quick wink.

"Excellent," he'd replied with a smile, then leaned forward and mirrored her conspiratorial expression before whispering, "Thank you, Marie."

"Lord knows you need the calories," she replied seriously looking him up and down and tutting ruefully. "Nothing but skin and bones, since the day you were born."

A pointed cough from the door had interrupted them then, and seconds later he'd followed his brother down the steep front steps and into the back of the sleek black car waiting for them at the kerb.

Half way through their journey, the silence in the spacious back seat has yet to be broken but for the soft rustle of paper as the elder Holmes peruses his copy of the morning Times. Lifting his coffee cup to his lips, Sherlock tips the mug up and takes a pull of the sweet caffeinated liquid in a long (and purposefully loud) wet slurp—smiling against the lip of the cup at the world-weary exhalation that sounds beside him.

"Your company, as ever, is delightfull," his older brother says from behind his newspaper.

"You _could_ avoid exposing yourself to it if you'd simply agree to hire a second car and driver," Sherlock offers pleasantly.

"And willingly forgo these daily moments of family togetherness?" Mycroft asks, face still hidden as he turns one long, printed page. "Perish the thought."

"Don't you think I'm getting a bit old to be shuttled to school by my older brother and dropped off at the door like a child?" Sherlock challenges.

"Undoubtedly."

"Then why, exactly, can't I have a car of my own?" Sherlock inquires petulantly.

"You already have your own car, Sherlock. Ready and waiting and sitting idle for well over a year now," Mycroft reminds him pleasantly. "You need only learn to _drive_ it."

"You don't drive," Sherlock challenges. " _Ever_. I can't even recall the last time I saw you behind the wheel of a car."

"My occupation affords me certain accommodation in that respect, as you are well aware," Mycroft tells him, with the air of someone who has grown tired of repeating the same information multiple times. "And just because you haven't _seen_ me drive doesn't mean I don't do so regularly. I'd been driving for nearly two years already by the time I was your age."

"We live in a city that boasts one of the finest and well maintained public transportion systems in the world, Mycroft," Sherlock argues, changing tacks. "Driving is hardly a necessary skill in London."

"But it is a _useful_ skill, Sherlock."

"And not a particularly difficult one to master, apparently, if even _you_ can do it!" Sherlock snaps.

"Says the person who has not yet done so," his brother replies lightly from behind his newspaper.

"Do try to be less smug about the achievement, Mycroft. It's hardly quantum physics, after all," Sherlock fires back.

"Would that it were, brother," Mycroft intones gravely, "You'd have taught yourself the finer points of ignition wiring and been touring the countryside in Old Bessie by the time you were eleven years old."

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock scoffs with a dramatic wave of his hand. "My feet couldn't have reached the pedals in that monster. It was less a sedan than a yacht."

"A fair point," his brother concedes. "Father's Aston Martin coupe would have been a much better fit for you."

Sherlock is silent beside him for a beat—just a fraction of a second, really, a mere moment within a moment—and in all fairness even an astute observer might miss the slight hitch in his posture and the single soft, sharply drawn breath hissed through clenched teeth. It's a momentary shift in demeanor, passing as quickly as it came, and it's doubtful that most people would notice it had happened at all.

Mycroft Holmes is not most people.

His long fingers tighten ever so slightly where they grasp the edges of the newsprint barrier before him, and he moves to fold one corner of the paper down so that he can look at his brother, whose gaze snaps back into focus as he turns to face him.

"I do understand your…reluctance, when it comes to this matter," Mycroft begins, his voice softer now. "But if Mummy and Father were here, I believe they would—"

"But they're _not_ here," Sherlock says matter-of-factly, interrupting his brother with the look in his eyes as much as the words he speaks. Mycroft holds the gaze, letting the moment stretch out between them, then tilts his head slightly and tips his chin in a small nod.

"No," he concedes gently. "They're not."

Sherlock stares at him for a long moment, his expression blank and passive, but Mycroft doesn't miss the slight creases at the outside corners of the eyes that are so very like their mother's (almond shaped, long lashed, pale grey-green irises speckled impossibly with so many other hues) yet somehow so very different at the same time. As his younger brother turns his stare away and back out the window, Mycroft realises what it is he sees in Sherlock's gaze that he doesn't ever recall seeing in Rosamund Holmes' eyes. Sadness.

Mycroft silently watches his brother, eyes tracing the rather striking profile he cuts, stark and pale and angular against the dark tinted window behind it, and after a long moment swallows against an unfamiliar tightness in his chest, clears his throat softly, the raises his newspaper back up before him and continues to read.

Sherlock Holmes doesn't hate Morningside Academy.

True, the first time he'd scaled the front stairs and walked through the main doors trailing sulkily behind his officious brother's long, purposeful stride, he had silently predicted it would be approximately three months (four, _tops_ ) before they'd be performing this same trip in reverse, forcing Mycroft to locate another well regarded educational institution that would gladly accept Sherlock based on his stellar test results yet be willing (for a price) to overlook his somewhat colourful academic history.

But strolling through the empty halls, deserted as they nearly always are at this early hour, Sherlock is willing to concede that he doesn't loathe the place entirely. A fact which, as it turns out, comes as much of a surprise to him as it does to anyone, really.

He finds that the facilities in general are pleasant enough, the pre-war building that houses the institution having been continuously upgraded and modernized over the years. The board of governors has prioritized a focus on an infrastructure that embraces advances in technology at the same time that it strives to maintain the historical reputation of the institution. As a result, a state of the art intranet accessible to nearly any electronic device that connects the staff with the students (and the students to each other) exists in the same building that now boasts one of the largest traditional libraries of any secondary school in the country.

The staff, in Sherlock's opinion, is fairly acceptable on the whole, with a few glaring exceptions (because really, the very idea that one can claim a degree in "physical education" as a legitimately academic pursuit is beyond his understanding when it seems to him that the only prerequisites for an actual job in the field are the ability to blow a whistle and the burning desire to relive one's own testosterone fueled glory days vicariously through subsequent generations). His other instructors have displayed skills of at least basic competency in their chosen fields, and even those that continue to lecture him about such tedious matters as "attendance" and "participation" cannot deny that his coursework demonstrates an excellent understanding of the curriculum, whether or not he can be bothered to actually come to class.

The students, however—well, they're the same as students everywhere really. Dull, boorish, privileged, and excessively concerned with all manner of ridiculous topics that he's never found to be worthy of the level of fascination his peers assign to them. True, there are a few personalities amongst the masses that he doesn't find completely objectionable, and when he'd first arrived at the school it came as a bit of a shock to find that he wasn't immediately and universally despised. For a while there, he'd even thought that he might possibly have found someone his own age that he actually might _enjoy_ associating with, someone that seemed to enjoy his company as well, but…

Well. He'd been mistaken, that's all.

Besides, he reminds himself as he rounds the top of the staircase and turns down the second floor corridor and begins rooting around in his shoulder bag for the spare set of keys Mrs. Hudson gave him, when this school year comes to an end he'll be on his way to university, and at that point it won't matter who he befriended (or didn't) in his tenure here.

The sudden, sharp clang of metal against tile startles him as it echoes through the empty corridor.

Which, as it turns out, isn't empty at all.

"Buggering hell!" an oddly familiar voice exclaims, and Sherlock looks up just in time to avoid a head on collision with…

 _John_.

Sherlock stops short, his gaze sweeping quickly over their surroundings ( _staffroom door directly to the right, a fob hung with several keys lying on the floor to the left_ ) and then coming to rest on the person standing just a few feet away as he attempts to reconcile the young man before him with the voice he'd heard talking with Mrs. Hudson in the library yesterday.

He looks ( _down, as the man is quite a bit shorter than he is_ ) at him, taking in the large backpack slung over one ( _broad, well defined_ ) shoulder, the dark green cardigan jumper hanging from the crook of one ( _tanned_ ) elbow, the arms laden with a stack of heavy books ( _academic texts of various scientific subjects_ ) and the large lidded paper coffee cup balanced precariously on top of the whole mess held in place by the ( _dimpled)_ chin attached to a face in possession of a ( _slightly chapped_ ) set of lips and a pair of ( _blue_ ) eyes all framed by a halo of ( _short and slightly mussed_ ) golden hair.

"Sorry about the language, you know, before," the man says sheepishly, his ( _quite deeply blue, really_ ) eyes crinkling at the corners as he attempts to explain. "It's just that my goddamn hands are full and I've dropped my sodding keys—oh _hell_ , sorry. Again."

Sherlock stares at him for a moment longer, and he tries to stop the corner of his mouth from quirking upwards in a grin, but apparently fails to do so as the stammering young man huffs out a short laugh.

"Look, I swear I'm not trying to break into the place or anything, but would you mind…" John asks, cocking his head towards the set of keys on the floor, and looking relieved as Sherlock steps to his left and bends down to retrieve them. "Thanks, I appreciate the help. I'm John Watson, by the way, I'm the new—"

"Library assistant," Sherlock says, straightening back and up and thumbing through the keys to find the correct one.

"Yeah," John Watson says, surprise in his tone as Sherlock watches him shift the stack of books into the crook of his right arm then grab the coffee cup with his left hand and slowly roll his shoulder back and forth with a slight grimace before continuing. "How did you—"

"Car accident or sports injury?" Sherlock inquires.

"Sorry, what?"

"Your shoulder," he clarifies, throwing a sidelong glance in John's direction. "Was it a car accident or a sports injury?"

"Sports injury," John answers slowly, eyebrows knitting together in confusion. "Torn rotator cuff, but how—"

"Is that why you lost your scholarship?" Sherlock asks, sliding the proper key into the lock and turning it, the telltale click echoing through the hall as the tumblers align.

"Yeah, I'm not exactly sure what's going on here," John says, his voice a bit suspicious as he looks up into Sherlock's face. "Or who you've been talking to, but—"

"I haven't been _talking_ to anyone," Sherlock says, his cheeks pinking slightly as he looks away and turns the knob, pushing the door open a few inches and gesturing to it. "There you are. Welcome to Morningside Academy."

"Thanks," the shorter man says slowly, watching him extract the keys from where they're still hanging from the knob, his eyes widening in surprise when Sherlock steps forward and reaches towards the waistband of John's jeans and pushes the keys into his front pocket with two long, pale fingers before stepping gracefully around him and continuing down the hall. As he makes his way down the corridor, Sherlock can feel the new library assistant's gaze boring into his back.

"Wait!" John calls out a moment later.

Sherlock stops walking, then slowly turns to look back at John where he still stands in front of the now open staffroom door staring at him curiously. Sherlock returns the look, and a few long seconds later when John still hasn't spoken he raises his eyebrows and tilts his head expectantly.

"Yes?"

"Well," the shorter man says, pausing for another moment as if in thought—the very tip of his tongue darting out to glide over his bottom lip, a mere flash of pink that disappears so quickly Sherlock can't be sure if he really saw it to begin with—before he shrugs his good shoulder and heaves a slightly exasperated sigh. "It's just that you seem to know exactly who I am, but I don't know a thing about you. I don't know if you're a student here, or what you're doing in the building at this hour—I don't even know your name."

Sherlock raises his cup to his lips and looks at John Watson over the edge, takes a long sip, then narrows his eyes and considers his response. After a moment he swallows his mouthful of sweet, hot coffee and says, "I am a student here, I'm always here this early, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and I'll be in the library." He raises his cup and tips it in mock salute, then turns on his heel and continues walking to the end of the hall before rounding the corner and disappearing from view.

Staring at the papers spread out before him, Sherlock reaches up to tilt the desk lamp a bit to better illuminate his notes. Squinting, he concentrates on the section of the page where he'd been forced to write out his formulas in smaller and smaller text to compensate for the lack of space he'd given himself when he'd set out to chart the reactions in the first place. He touches the tip of his pencil to the scant open space below the last set of notations and is so lost in thought that that he fails to notice that he's not alone until a hand alights softly on his shoulder, making him jump in surprise.

"Sorry," John Watson says quickly, deftly raising his arms just in time to narrowly avoid having the coffee cup clutched in his left hand slapped out of it by one of Sherlock's flailing arms. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I wasn't _scared_ ," Sherlock answers crossly, settling back into his chair and rearranging his notes as his heart rate begins to settle back down to something approaching normal. "A bit startled perhaps, which is hardly surprising given that you chose to alert me to your presence by clutching my shoulder instead of simply announcing yourself."

"Well, I thought about shouting 'boo!', but it seemed a bit childish," John replies seriously, and when Sherlock shoots him a withering look, he simply shrugs—and _smiles_. "To be fair, I did say your name. Twice. But it looked like you were a bit lost in thought."

"Yet you still felt compelled to interrupt me," Sherlock replies, his earlier surprise giving way to a touch of annoyance. " _Very_ considerate of you."

"Hey, I said I was sorry," John Watson offers with an apologetic grin as he raises his cup and takes a drink. "So you're Sherlock Holmes."

"Apparently."

"Right. As in the 'Holmes Collection', and the library endowment?" John inquires.

"The very same," Sherlock confirms, affecting a disinterested tone as he bends back over his notes and begins to transcribe the next equation in the sequence.

"So your parents are responsible for all of this?" John Watson asks, his tone impressed as he gestures broadly to the space around them, and if he notices that Sherlock stiffens slightly and goes momentarily still, he doesn't mention it.

"My brother, actually," Sherlock answers, his voice less abrasive than it had been just moments ago.

"Your brother?" John asks, with a touch of surprise, and without even looking at him Sherlock can pinpoint the exact moment that he understands the implications of the pronouncement, can practically see the puzzle pieces sliding into sequence and clicking into place, the image of the poor little orphan child coming into focus. "Oh. So your parents—"

"Are dead," Sherlock confirms crisply, turning to look up at him where he stands, and all traces of the earlier flash of vulnerability have disappeared. "Is there a _point_ to this line of questioning?"

"No, not particularly," John says, a bit defensively, before drawing in a breath and letting it out heavily. "Look I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot earlier. When she showed me around yesterday, Mrs. Hudson mentioned that you spend quite a lot of time here in the library, and since I'll be spending a fair amount of it here myself I thought it might be nice for us to, I don't know, get to know a bit about each other, I guess."

Sherlock sweeps his gaze down the length of the young man before him, and then reverses course to scan back up to his face before narrowing his eyes and regarding him shrewdly for a long moment—then he takes a deep breath and begins to speak:

"I know you're in your first year at Bart's and the London School of Medicine and Dentistry, and that you're studying to be a doctor. I know that you were able to begin your academic career there thanks in large part to a fairly generous rugby scholarship, the same scholarship that you subsequently lost as a result of the shoulder injury you incurred early in the season. I know that you were able to make ends meet at first without additional employment, likely because the rent on your basement flat at 221 Baker Street is exceedingly reasonable and therefore you were able to finish out the first term by severely cutting back your expenses, but it wasn't long before you realised that you'd need to find a job—one with flexible hours to accommodate your fluctuating class schedule as well as offering a fairly quiet environment that will allow you time to study during the less busy moments of your shift. I also know that such a job, in general, could hardly pay you enough to make it worth the petrol to make the trip each day, let alone fund your tuition, but _if_ you were lucky enough to find such work under the management of someone with broad discretionary access to a private trust who was willing to pay you generously for your services both out of a sense of affection as well as a belief that you'll do the job very well, then it would be the perfect arrangement for you—and thus, here you are."

"So you see, John. I know a great deal about you already," Sherlock says, the corners of his mouth tipping up into a smug grin before nodding dismissively and turning his attention back to the notes spread out on the desk in front of him. "That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?"

John stares down at the younger man for a long moment, but Sherlock keeps his eyes on the factors and formulas covering the pages before him, fully expecting the inevitable angry outburst at any moment and attempting to brace himself for it while still appearing casual and uninterested…but it doesn't come. A full minute passes, and though Sherlock tries to maintain his careful air of nonchalance, in the end his curiosity gets the best of him and he turns his head slowly to meet John's gaze, the blue eyes open wide and slightly out of focus above a mouth hanging slightly agape.

"Are you quite all right, John?" Sherlock asks hesitantly.

"Yeah," John says slowly, before his mouth snaps abruptly closed and he shakes his head slightly before lowering his gaze to meet Sherlock's. "Actually, no. I'm not. How on earth could you know all of that?"

"I didn't _know_ ," Sherlock clarifies, lifting one shoulder in a careless shrug. "I _saw_."

"You saw?" John asks incredulously. "You saw _what_?"

Sherlock turns in his chair to face John fully, regards him curiously for a beat, then begins to explain.

"Your carriage and demeanor says athlete, your age and general physical condition suggests a level of play that exceeds the occasional friendly game in the park or membership in a casual amateur club. Your arms are tan but the colour stops just shy of the sleeve hem of your t-shirt, suggesting a sport played outdoors in a uniform featuring a moderately short sleeve length. Now the sport itself _could_ be something other than rugby, but given that the skin on your elbows is scarred by years of repeated minor injuries to the flesh there and the fact that your short stature and stocky build give you the ideal physique to play the back line, I think we can safely say that Rugby has long been your sport of choice."

"OK," John says, a touch of wonder in his voice but still eyeing him suspiciously. "I'll buy all of that, but who said anything about playing for Barts?"

"You did," Sherlock says. "Not in so many words, of course, but it was you who pointed me directly to the evidence. Literally dropped it right in front of me."

"Ah," John says with sudden understanding, then reaches into his pocket and pulls out the ring of keys Sherlock had retrieved for him from the floor that morning and runs his thumb over the key fob—tracing the shape of the distinctive black and white checked shield rimmed in bright yellow that serves as the team logo for the Royal Hospitals RFC before looking back up at Sherlock. "Doesn't mean I go to school there, though. Might just be a big fan."

"Possible," Sherlock concedes with a thoughtful tip of his head, "but unlikely given the stack of textbooks with subjects highly specific to the course work of a first year medicine student—and even _more_ unlikely since all three bore stickers on their spines clearly indicating that they were purchased at an officially sanctioned Barts/LMC textbook exchange. Books which you chose not to find room for in your backpack, which is completely understandable given that the extra weight is more easily borne by the well-developed muscles of your upper arms instead of putting extra strain on your still healing shoulder, which—though much improved—still bothers you enough that you need to stop and stretch the joint quite frequently. Losing your scholarship put quite a strain on your budget, I'd wager."

John's expression doesn't alter much at the pronouncement, but his mouth tightens a bit, and he nods in confirmation while unconsciously rolling his left shoulder the way he had earlier.

"Luckily, your rent is set at a comically low amount for such a desirable central London location, and that does improve your financial situation considerably." Sherlock says confidently.

"How can you _possibly_ know where I live?" John asks, curiosity warring with disbelief.

"Take a look at the cup in your hand, John," Sherlock says, rolling his eyes slightly as John does exactly that. "Speedy's Sandwich Bar and Café, despite making a passably decent cup of coffee, is hardly the type of establishment one might go out of their way to patronize, therefore we can assume proximity played a significant factor in your stopping there this morning. The fact that Speedy's is located in a Westminster building owned by one Martha Hudson, who just happens to be the venerable librarian here at Morningside Academy, leads me to believe that I may _also_ safely assume that proximity played a significant factor in her hiring you on as her assistant as well."

"Doesn't prove that I live in the building," John challenges, looking thoughtful. "Mrs. Hudson could be my Aunt for all you know."

"Given that her late husband was an only child and that she has only one sister, who as of this date has never been married and claims parentage of no one outside of the rather extensive collection of neighborhood cats she feeds daily, I find that scenario to be highly unlikely. Besides, if the faint smell of mildew on your clothing wasn't evidence enough that you've taken up residence in the basement flat of 221 Baker Street, the slight, and obviously new, squidginess around your waistline is a dead giveaway, as it is certainly the result of fewer intense regular workouts combined with a steady diet of home baked goods that no doubt find their way into your flat with astonishing regularity."

John plucks at the neckline of the green cardigan sweater he slipped on at some point after Sherlock first saw him in the hall and lifts it to his face and takes a deep sniff, his forehead wrinkling in confusion.

"My clothes don't smell musty to me," he tells Sherlock.

"Of course they don't," Sherlock says dismissively. "You're used to the smell, so you don't notice it. But don't worry, scents have a harder time lingering on cheaper, artificial fibers, it's already less noticeable than it was earlier."

"Well good," John says, huffing out a breathy chuckle. "I've been looking for the silver lining to being dead broke, I guess 'quick dissipation of mouldy odours' is a start. And I'm not _squidgy_ , by the way. My trousers fit just as well as they ever have, thank you very much."

"For _now_ ," Sherlock concedes gravely.

"So let me get this straight," John says, holding up his left hand and ticking off the details one by one on short, sturdy fingers. "You looked at me for a total of thirty seconds and were able to tell that I played rugby at school, that I've lost my scholarship due to an injury, that I'm a first year medicine student at Bart's, that I live at 221C Baker Street, that I'm damn near broke, that I walk around smelling like mould, and that I'm apparently also getting _fat_?"

"Well," Sherlock says carefully, "I suppose that is one way of putting it, yes."

"I see," John says nodding, a slightly incredulous look on his face.

Sherlock looks at John impassively, quietly taking in a breath and inwardly bracing himself for the type of reaction he's come to expect in situations like these. He watches John digest the events of the last several minutes, then nod his head and open his mouth to speak.

"That," he begins, looking Sherlock directly in the eye, "was _amazing_."

Sherlock freezes where he sits, eyes blinking rapidly as he replays John's words in his mind repeatedly, making sure he heard them correctly.

"You think so?" He asks, the timidity in his voice sounding strange even to his own ears.

"Yeah, I do," John says, smiling and shaking his head. "Absolutely extraordinary. A bit unflattering, I admit, but bloody brilliant."

"Oh," Sherlock says eloquently, narrowing his eyes slightly and staring at John who looks back at him with a gaze as open and sincere as the words he just spoke "That's not what people normally say."

"No?" John asks, eyebrows raised in curiosity. "What do they normally say?"

" _Piss off_ ," Sherlock says, then watches as John's shoulders begin to shake and a low chuckle rumbles in his chest and slowly works its way up his throat before it dissolves into that same infectious giggle he'd overheard the day before—the one that makes Sherlock's own lips twitch as a soft laugh escapes from his mouth, the two sounds combining, weaving together to fill the space between and around them, echoing in his ears even as it dies away, and Sherlock watches John's face—watches blue eyes crinkle with laughter, watches tanned cheeks pinked with amusement, watches the last clear notes of John's laugh tumbling from his lips…then all at once realises that he's watching—staring, even—and turns quickly away, looking back down at the desk and fidgeting with the notes spread across the surface.

"I don't doubt it," John says with a broad grin and a sigh, then steps a bit closer to get a look at the papers Sherlock is absently pushing around the desk. "So what are you working on so diligently back here?"

"Chemistry," Sherlock tells him, suddenly glad for the change in subject.

"Oh wow," John says, bending a bit lower over Sherlock's shoulder and examining the equations more closely. "These are reaction summaries, aliphatic organic compounds, right?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, a note of surprise in his voice as he turns slightly to surreptitiously examine John's profile as he leans casually on the edge of the desk and looks over Sherlock's notes. "At least they're supposed to be. I'm still working on the progressions."

"They cover organic chemistry in A-Levels now?" John asks, his curiosity evident.

"No," Sherlock says with a sigh. "The standard texts available at this school are disappointingly basic. This is more of a personal project, I suppose."

"That's pretty impressive," John says, standing back up and looking down at Sherlock with a smile.

"It passes the time," Sherlock says lightly as something warm and unfamiliar blooms behind his sternum. "I am almost certain there are some much more advanced Chemistry texts in storage downstairs that have yet to be catalogued, but Mrs. Hudson won't let me go searching for them."

"I'll keep an eye out then," John says amiably. "Let you know what I find as we work through unpacking the crates."

"That would be…good," He says, nodding his thanks and watching as John smiles before looking back down at Sherlock's carefully transcribed equations.

"I can't believe you've worked all this out on your own," John says again, a note of impressed wonder in his voice, and Sherlock sits up a bit straighter in his chair at the praise. "We just started learning about these reactions last term. I'd never have been able to tackle these in my A-Levels."

"That's because you're an idiot," Sherlock says reflexively, turning to regard John when he doesn't immediately respond, taking in the shocked amusement on his face, and rolling his eyes dismissively. "Oh don't be like that. Practically everyone is."

John shakes his head as a broad smile stretches over his face and another laugh-turned-giggle floats through the air between them. Sherlock sucks in a shallow breath at the sound, surprised again by how it seems to resonate somewhere deep within him, how he can't seem to hear it often enough, how he begins to miss it even before it's fully gone.

"Yeah, I'm starting to understand that whole 'piss off' reaction," John says, smiling as he shakes his head and lifts his coffee cup to his mouth.

Sherlock sees John's lips part against the white plastic edge, hears him inhale slightly as he closes his mouth around the small opening in the lid, and watches the muscles of his neck contract as he swallows repeatedly. He's staring so intently that he doesn't notice at first that John is looking at him quizzically. Thinking quickly, he clears his throat slightly and gestures to the cup clutched in John's hand.

"You're not supposed to have that in here, you know."

"Really?" John asks, sounding surprised and looking down at the paper-covered surface of Sherlock's desk and gesturing to the gleaming stainless steel mug. "You've got one."

"True," Sherlock concedes, picking it up and looking thoughtful as he takes a sip. "And Mrs. Hudson will arrive at any moment to scold me for it—after which she will allow me to keep it ' _just this once_ '."

As if summoned by the mere mention of her name, the heavy library door swishes open followed by the soft tap of kitten heels traveling across the floor in their general direction.

"Yoo-hoo!" Mrs. Hudson calls out as she crosses through the large common space in the center of the room. "Sherlock, love—are you already settled in?"

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock calls back, and he and John both turn to look toward the end of the aisle.

"Oh good," Martha Hudson says merrily as they hear her start across the floor, stopping to flick on a table lamp on her way. "I've hired a new assistant, and I want you on your best behavior when you meet him, understood?"

"No promises," Sherlock says petulantly, smiling back as John shoots him a conspiratorial grin.

"Sherlock Holmes, you listen very carefully," the librarian says sternly, the soft hum of computer terminals coming to life as she makes her way closer to his location. "John Watson is a lovely young man, and I think if you give him half a chance you just might find that the two of you have more in common than you—"

Martha Hudson rounds the corner and stops abruptly and stares at the two young men where they stand, smiling broadly when John lifts a hand and waves it at her.

"Oh wonderful, you've already met!" She exclaims, beaming at each of them in turn, then narrowing her gaze and fixing it on the cups in their hands, pursing her lips crossly. "For heaven's sake Sherlock. How many times must I tell you that you're not to bring beverages into the library?"

"At least once more, it would seem," Sherlock says brightly, lifting his cup and taking a drink.

"The sign out front is very clear, young man. _No Food, No Drink, No open flames_. I don't blame you, John—this is your first day after all, but this one here is beginning to try my patience on the matter."

"Won't happen again, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock says solemnly, shooting John a sly wink and taking yet another drink from his cup, smiling against the edge of it as he watches John suppressing a grin of his own.

"See to it that it doesn't," the librarian says sternly, then lifts one handle of her bag off of her wrist and begins rooting around in the depths. "Though perhaps it's just as well you've got something warm to drink, it'll go nicely with these," she says, producing two small paper wrapped parcels and handing one to each of them.

"Rasperry jam biscuits?" John asks hopefully.

"Of course they are," Sherlock says confidently.

"They're my favorite," John and Sherlock both say, nearly in unison.

"See there? Already something in common," Mrs. Hudson says smugly, beaming at them both before pointing a stern finger at each of them in turn. "But just this once, mind."

"Understood, Mrs. H." John agrees solemnly.

"But for the moment we've got food, we've got drinks, perhaps I should light something on fire while all the rules are suspended," Sherlock teases, ripping open his packet of biscuits and popping one into his mouth. "Just this once."

"Don't press your luck, Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson fires back sternly before turning to smile at her new assistant. "All right then, John. Ready to get to work?"

"Ready when you are," John answers, following her as she disappears around the end of the aisle.

Sherlock watches them go, then stares for a long moment at the empty space—and is momentarily startled when John reappears suddenly, leaning to poke his head around the end of the aisle.

"Talk to you later, yeah?" John Watson asks.

"All right," Sherlock answers, returning the smile directed his way before it disappears once again.

After a moment he looks back down at his notes, pops another biscuit into his mouth, then gets back to work—crumbs, and a smile, lingering on his lips.


	3. Chapter 3: (304)

**CHAPTER 3: (304): Factors Affecting Social Behavior**

Sherlock Holmes was eight years old when his Aunt Violet got married.

Again.

While she had been blessed with the grace, charm and effortless beauty that were the hallmarks of the women in their family line, Violet Poppington-Rinaldi-Buchanon (née Molyneaux) unfortunately did not possess the same good fortune in love that her younger sister Rosamund had found with Sieger Holmes.

But where Aunt Violet was decidedly unlucky in marriage, her luck in _divorce_ was another matter entirely. The circumstances of her birth afforded her quite a comfortable life, but it was the dissolution of three marital unions that made her a _very_ wealthy woman. Wealthy enough that, upon leaving her third husband after finding him in a rather compromising position with his yoga instructor, Violet had sworn to her sister that as she had the means to—and was perfectly capable _of_ —taking care of herself, she was officially swearing off the entire notion of romance and vowed that he she would _never_ marry again.

So it came as somewhat of a surprise when less than a year after that pronouncement, over breakfast the morning after she arrived in Cornwall for a week-long visit, she casually announced her engagement to one Alexander Cartwright of Philadelphia, Pennsylvania and asked if they might possibly hold the ceremony there in just under three weeks' time. And because Rosamund Holmes loved to throw parties almost as much as she loved her sister, a fortnight later the plans had been made, the house had been readied, and the guests began to arrive.

Sherlock had been transfixed by the spectacle of it all; the bustle of the household staff as they raced to prepare for the big day, the constant stream of deliveries and workmen going to and fro, and finally the seemingly endless parade of people filing into the house dragging suitcases behind them, invading the rooms and filling the halls with noise and voices and the constant hum of occupancy. Perched behind the long railing at the top of the main staircase, he watched with interest as the adults greeted one another. The sea of familiar faces of family and friends peppered with those he'd never seen before, many of whom introduced themselves in voices with American accents and exchanged hugs and handshakes with people they'd just met as though they'd known them all their lives.

He found that if he stayed silent he could wander amongst them mostly unseen, listening to the rattle of ice cubes against glass, catching snippets of conversation, feeling the heat generated by so many bodies, smelling the combined scents of perfume and aftershave and sweat. He stood there in the middle of it all amazed by the sheer amount of information that bombarded him from every direction, the endless stream of data—it was strange and new and overwhelming…and _fascinating_.

He'd been so lost in thought that when a large hand settled softly on his head, it startled him for a moment—until his father's familiar chuckle soon followed and the hand slid to rest affectionately on his shoulder.

"There's my boy," Sieger Holmes said jovially, raising his glass of caramel colored scotch to his smiling lips and taking a drink while looking down at his youngest son. "Your mother said you were upstairs at the children's party."

"I was," Sherlock answered with a grave look. " _Dull_."

As Sieger Holmes' booming laugh rang in the large room, several people around him smiled at the sound and joined in with chuckles of their own.

"Thought you might make a break for it," his father said merrily. "Better not let your mum see you down here."

"I don't know why I can't stay with you," Sherlock whined, brow scrunched moodily as he stared across the room where his older brother stood (looking terribly smug) conversing intently with their cousin Peter and a third older boy, tall and blond, that he didn't recognize. "Why doesn't Mycroft have to come upstairs as well?"

"Because he's nearly sixteen, Sherlock," his father replied patiently.

"What difference does that make?" Sherlock asked petulantly, stretching his shoulders and neck and standing as tall as possible. "I'll be nine next month."

"And ten a minute later, and all grown up before I've even had the chance to blink," Sieger said fondly, a smile tipping at his lips as he dropped to one knee and looked his young son in the eye. "Your mum is counting on you to help entertain your cousins and the other children, you know. It's a big responsibility, and it'd be a great help to her."

"Fine," Sherlock sighed, looking quite put out before turning and walking purposefully (but definitely _not_ stomping) towards the stairs. He paused for a moment at the bottom step and looked back over his shoulder to find his father's gaze, smiling as the elder Holmes shot him a wink before turning away and blending back into the crowd.

Relegated to the company of the other children for most of the week that followed, Sherlock had expected that while the information to be gathered from the gaggle of his young cousins and various other offspring of the wedding guests may not be as _interesting_ , it would certainly still plentiful. But it very quickly became apparent that the regular tedious jumble of data—revealing who was angry with whom or who grew three inches over the summer or who wanted to talk ad nauseum about the ridiculous television programme everyone was currently obsessed with—had suddenly been replaced by the only thing that anyone seemed to be talking about at all:

Tristan Cartwright.

When Aunt Violet's soon to be (fourth) husband had arrived in Cornwall that first night with his sixteen year old son in tow, the adults had been warm and friendly and happy to meet Violet's new beau, ready to welcome him and his charming son into the fold. The children in attendance, however, skipped right over friendly curiosity about the new arrival and moved on directly to _losing their minds_.

At dinner that first night, the air around the children's table was abuzz with speculation. The boys were impressed by his worldly air, speculating about his life ( _I heard he drives a race car…Eddie saw him smoking with the cooks outside the kitchen…My mum says he works at his Dad's company…I bet he has loads of girlfriends)._ The girls, however, seemed fixated on slightly different aspects of the young man. ( _Look at those blue eyes…His smile is so perfect…My brother Peter says he's in a band...Do you think he has a girlfriend?...I wonder what kind of music he likes… He smiled right at me! I swear he did!)_

And then there was the _giggling_.

The next morning, after the older girls had spent most of the previous night skulking down hallways and peering around corners just to get a glimpse of his cousin-to-be—and then bursting into squeals of laughter and frantic bouts of whispering after they did—Sherlock overheard Alexander Cartwright laugh and remark that his son tended to have that effect wherever he went, saying:

"That's Tristan for you. The boys all want to be him and the girls all want to be with him!"

Which, Sherlock had to admit, did seem to be an accurate assessment of the situation. With the other children so preoccupied with tracking young Tristan's every move, Sherlock had more time to break away from the pack and wander around the big house alone than he'd expected he would. And so it happened that the night before the wedding he rounded the corner of the second floor hallway just in time to see Tristan Cartwright disappear, alone, into the library. Sherlock waited for a moment, anticipating the arrival of the ever present gaggle of girls that seemed to follow Aunt Violet's new stepson at every turn, and when they didn't come he crept down the hall and stood outside the library door, listening.

When he didn't hear any voices, his curiosity got the best of him and he quietly turned the knob, opened the door just a crack…and saw that Tristan wasn't alone at all.

He was standing next to the fireplace, backed up against the wall, being kissed (rather thoroughly, it seemed) by one of Sherlock's cousins. He watched for a moment longer, eye pressed tightly to the narrow crack, until a soft cough sounded from further back down the hall, making him jump slightly. Whipping his head toward the sound, Sherlock saw his mother standing next to the large spray of flowers sitting on a table nestled into a nook, two baskets of fresh cut blooms in her arms as she stared in his direction with a raised eyebrow.

Closing the door as silently as possible, Sherlock turned and padded down the hall toward his mum, stopping right in front of her and looking sheepish.

"What did your father and I tell you about spying, love?" she asked him softly.

"I wasn't spying," Sherlock assured her, squaring his shoulders with a bit more bravado than he actually felt. "I was _observing_."

"There's a very fine line of distinction between the two," she reminded him gently, setting her baskets on the floor and turning to pull the least fresh blooms from the arrangement of flowers beside her. "What was it that you were observing?"

"I saw Tristan going into the Library," Sherlock explained, with a shrug. "I wondered what he was doing in there."

"And what was he doing?" Mummy asked lightly, tucking fresh stems into the vase and arranging them artfully.

" _Kissing_ someone."

"Oh, I see," his mother said seriously, a smile quirking at the corner of her lips as she plucked a drooping white rose from the vase and replaced it with a fresh soft peach bud. "Someone you recognized?"

"Yes," Sherlock admitted. "Cousin Peter."

Rosamund Holmes froze for a moment, just a split second really—no more—before pulling another dying bloom from the bouquet and setting about replacing it deftly with a new one.

"Well," She said airly, a bit of a smile in her voice. "Agnes Carlisle's daughter Bitsy will be terribly disappointed. She's been making moony eyes at him for three full days now."

"Cousin Peter is a boy," Sherlock continued.

"That's true," she agreed, turning to look down at her young son, smiling softly as he stared back at her, his forehead wrinkled in thought.

"Do boys always kiss other boys?" he asked, tilting is head and looking up at her for an answer.

"Some boys do, yes," she told him with a smile, continuing to pull and replace flowers. "And some boys kiss girls. And some girls kiss other girls too."

"How do they know who they want to kiss?"

"That's something we each get to discover for ourselves, love," his mother had said simply. "One day you'll know too."

"All the girls in this house want to kiss Tristan," Sherlock told her, rolling his eyes and shaking his head. "Should I tell them he'd rather kiss boys?"

"No, I don't think so," she replied, her voice kind but firm.

"But why not?" Sherlock asked her, curious.

"Because we all have our stories, Sherlock," his mother explained gently, reaching out a hand to fondly tame the wild curls at the side of his head. "And they are ours to tell…or not."

"But if I see it, doesn't that make it my story as well?"

"A very clever question," Mummy conceded with a proud grin, extracting one stem from the arrangement before her and deftly snapping off the perfectly formed soft pink rosebud and inch or two from the top, then crouching down before him and slipping it into the button hole in his lapel. "You're quite an observant young man, you know. But observing is not the same as participating. Everyone has secrets, love. And if those secrets aren't hurting anyone, best let them be kept. One day _you'll_ share a kiss with someone special—and that will be _your_ secret to keep."

"I don't want to kiss _anyone_!" Sherlock protested, with a scowl.

"You may change your mind about that, someday," Mummy told him with a knowing gleam in her eye, turning her head slightly and winking at her youngest child, who rolled his eyes and grinned before pursing his lips and pressing them to her cheek. With a smile, Rosamund Holmes smoothed her warm hand over the shoulders of his jacket, gently straightened his collar, then slapped her palms on her bent knees and stood back up to her full height. "Right, then. If you're finished _observing_ for the moment, why don't you help your old mum carry these baskets downstairs and we'll freshen up the centerpieces before dinner?"

Wicker handle balanced in the crook of his arm, Sherlock followed his mother down the long hall toward the front staircase. And when Tristan Cartwright and Peter Bingley exited the library standing side by side and turned in their direction, Sherlock observed them—the careful distance they maintained between themselves, the pleasantly neutral expressions on their faces as they conversed, the polite greetings they exchanged with his mother as they passed by.

A few moments later, a group of girls appeared on the landing and began making their way en masse down the hall. And as Sherlock observed their high pitched giggles and breathless whispers and ridiculously deliberate hair tosses as they very obviously trailed after the object of their affection while trying (in vain) _not_ to be obvious about it—he realised that he had a secret of his own:

If, one day, he ever _did_ want to kiss someone…he felt very sure that _someone_ would be a boy.

Sherlock Holmes was eight years old when his Aunt Violet got married, when he decided that the group of girls in attendance of that blessed event were the silliest, loudest, most irrational beings he had ever—or likely _would_ ever—encounter.

Nearly ten years later, he is now forced to admit that he'd been _wrong_.

In the two years he's been a student at Morningside Academy, Sherlock can't recall a single day when the library has seen this much traffic. By his count there are currently no fewer than fourteen girls wandering around it at this very moment, huddled in groups of two or three, conversing in soft voices and pretending to browse the shelves while taking turns peering around (and through) them at the young man seated behind the circulation desk unpacking a large crate of books and chatting amiably with Mrs. Hudson.

He's not particularly surprised, mind you.

Annoyed, yes.

But not surprised.

The first bell had barely sounded that morning when his mobile phone alerted him to the presence of a _"NEW CONFESSION"_ waiting to be viewed. Tapping the green skull icon out of habit, Sherlock knew how the day would progress as soon as the first words began to appear:

 ** _iConfess: I think I'm going to be spending more time in the library…_**

Before the last spark of the self-destructing message had even faded from view, the library door swished open and the usually quiet atmosphere that prevailed in this space was shattered by the first grating, high-pitched, girlish giggles of the day.

But not the last, by far.

"Voices, dears," Mrs. Hudson had admonished pleasantly, and the students attached to the aforementioned giggles scattered into the stacks, far enough away from his regular spot that their conspiratorial whispers and occasional hushed laughter were quiet enough not to be obtrusive, but just loud enough to disturb the normally hushed atmosphere of the one place where Sherlock Holmes finds respite from the constant noise and clatter and crush of the rest of the student body. He'd just managed to tune out the new layer of noise when his mobile phone screen glowed to life beside him once again.

 ** _NEW CONFESSION!_**

Reaching out to tap the screen, the dull sense of dread in the pit of his stomach sharpened as he read:

 ** _iConfess: What has blond hair and blue eyes and a killer smile? Come to the Library and find out!_**

Watching the message slowly blur and then dissolve into a shower of bright sparks, Sherlock imagined that he could hear the ping and whir and beep of countless mobile phones alerting his fellow students to the presence of the message he'd just read—and with a sigh sank down into his chair, bent over his notes, and prepared himself for the inevitable invasion.

Hours later, the sudden flow of visitors anxious to avail themselves of the many services that Morningside library has to offer has yet to cease. While the traffic had understandably increased markedly during each passing period between classes (and saw a predictably impressive spike over the lunch hour), Sherlock is surprised by how many students are still here during scheduled class times. He can hear the swish of their footsteps as they prowl the stacks, the thump of fingertips dragging idly over the spines of books as they make their way and down the aisles, their hushed voices as they lean their heads together and discuss the single reason that has caused most of them to step foot into a library for the first time in their lives:

John Watson.

Who, Sherlock can only assume as he listens to John and Mrs. Hudson's steady stream of pleasant conversation as they sift through the contents of one of the crates dragged up from storage that morning, remains blissfully unaware of just how much interest his mere presence in the building has inspired in the students of Morningside Academy.

Well, the female students, anyway.

After the first few mentions of the new library assistant on the iConfess app, there's been a steady stream of new messages appearing regularly, the theme as consistent as the content is ridiculous.

 ** _iConfess: I am going to start reading more. A LOT MORE._**

 ** _iConfess: I just heard him say he plays rubgy, he can tackle me any time._**

 ** _iConfess: OMG HE TOTALLY SMILED AT ME!_**

 ** _iConfess: I don't see a ring on his finger_**

 ** _iConfess: I AM THE FUTURE MRS. WATSON!_**

He'd tried simply slipping his phone into his pocket to avoid seeing the _NEW CONFESSION_ notification constantly blinking on the screen. But he soon discovered that even though his own mobile is set to silent it seems that every other phone belonging to every other person within earshot is _not_ , and it's difficult to ignore the impromptu symphony that sounds each time one of the new members of the John Watson fan club decides to express themselves via anonymous electronic confession.

With each new iConfess alert that arrives, Sherlock finds himself more and more agitated by the entire spectacle. Intellectually he knows that approximately 49% of the students at Morningside Academy are female, he just hadn't expected _every single one of them_ to suddenly develop an intense desire to prowl around the school library peeking around corners in hopes of catching a glimpse of a perfectly ordinary, unremarkable twenty one year old librarian's assistant.

Well, not _completely_ unremarkable.

Sherlock had learned quite a bit about the man just that morning, had even told him (out loud) exactly what he'd observed—and the way that John Watson had reacted wasn't _ordinary_ at all. He hadn't been angry or defensive, he'd seemed…impressed. Said it was _brilliant_ and _amazing._ John even recognized the equations he was working on, and even when Sherlock called him an idiot he hadn't taken offense, he'd _laughed_.

A laugh that started out as one thing and then lifted and changed into something else entirely. A laugh that surprised him and intrigued him and seemed to drag a chuckle from his own lips without his permission. A laugh that he can still hear the ghost of ringing in his ears...

The sudden, low rumble of a chuckle drifts softly through the air, the pitch rising steadily until it bubbles over into an unmistakable giggle, and it isn't until Mrs. Hudson's tittering laugh joins in that Sherlock realises he's not imagining the sound. He cocks his head and listens, the slow swell of warmth rising steadily in the pit of his stomach, until the moment is broken by the chorus of electronic alerts sounding all around him.

* ** _ping*_**

 ** _*whir*_**

 ** _*bloop*_**

 ** _*trill*_**

 ** _*Ah, Ah, Ah, Ah, Stayin' Alive, Stayin' Alive…"_**

With a sigh he extracts his phone from the pocket of his trousers and looks at it wearily before hastily tapping the icon so the latest anonymous declaration appears:

 ** _iConfess: The new library assistant has the CUTEST laugh!_**

 _Oh for god's sake,_ he thinks to himself, shaking his head quickly from side to side to clear it. _I'm turning into a teenage girl._

With a heavy sigh and a roll of his eyes, Sherlock reaches down and pulls his earphones from the front flap of his bag, settles the buds into his ears, plugs the cord into the bottom of his mobile, taps his favorite playlist and gets back to work.

As it turns out, thumping bass and searing guitar and angry lyrics delivered by soaring vocals proves to be the perfect distraction. An hour later he's completed (and submitted electronically to his lit teacher's inbox) a very thorough essay on Chaucer that is insightful enough that it should merit not being harassed about his spotty attendance record in class. He's reviewed his French text with enough scrutiny that he feels quite confident he will ace the exam later this week. And now he finds he's anxious to get back to charting his reaction summaries—ready to start puzzling out the final set of equations that have given him such trouble over the last few days.

He's spreading out his notes with one hand and leaning down to retrieve his pencil as the last few rough notes of the song currently playing in his ears ring out and gradually fade into silence—and in the brief pause that follows, he catches a snippet of conversation coming from the next aisle.

"So you're saying that's him?" a deep voice asks, and Sherlock's ears perk up at the sound, the obviously male voice somewhat out of place given the events of the day. Sitting back up, he reaches out and quickly taps his mobile screen as the next song beings, pausing it as the voice continues. "You're full of shit."

"I'm not," a second voice (also male but with a distinctly nasal tone) insists. " _That's_ the guy."

"You've got to be joking," the first voice continues incredulously. "That short little tosser is what all the girls won't shut up about out?"

"I don't think he's that short, Seb," the second voice answers sceptically.

"Are you blind? He's gotta be at least eight inches shorter than me," the first boy insists, and Sherlock stretches his neck up enough so that he can peer through the gap above the neat row of books on the shelf and confirm that the two voices belong to Sebastian Wilkes and Philip Anderson.

"According to Sally, that's part of his charm," Anderson says moodily. "She called him 'goddamn adorable'. Says she wants to carry him around in her pocket."

"Yeah, well that makes sense," Wilkes says, huffing out a laugh. "She's your girlfriend, so we already know she's used to tiny things."

"Fuck you, Seb!"

"How many times do I have to tell you, Anderson," Sebastian says, affecting a world weary tone. " _I am not gay_ , you'll have to find someone else to fuck you."

"Christ, you two," a third voice interrupts, and Sherlock spine stiffens suddenly, freezing him in place as he listens to the cadence of familiar footsteps rounding the far corner of the shelf and approaching the two other boys where they stand. "Keep your voices down, this is a library you know."

"Sorry, Vic," Sebastian answers, his affected stage whisper dripping with fake contrition and seeming somehow even louder than his regular voice, as he crouches down and tries to find a gap in the shelves with a clear view of the central common space.

"Seen enough yet?" Victor Trevor asks, stepping up beside Sebastian and bending over to peer into the open spaces above the rows of books.

"Look at him," Sebastian says, lifting his chin and tilting his head toward the center of the room where it's barely visible between the shelves. "I don't get it. What the hell is so special about this guy?"

"How should I know?" Victor answers with a shrug, "Why don't you ask one of the girls?"

Sebastian Wilkes opens his mouth to protest, but then stands up suddenly, slaps his friend on the shoulder and grins broadly at him.

"Vic, my boy," he says, starting to walk purposefully towards the far end of the aisle. "You are a genius."

Sherlock watches as Phillip Anderson trails after Sebastian immediately, and it suddenly registers with him exactly where they're headed. He sees the exact moment that Victor Trevor realises it as well—when he turns his head quickly to the right, stares through the gap in the shelf, and directly into Sherlock's eyes—holding his gaze for the briefest of moments before turning away and following his friends.

Sherlock looks quickly down at his desk, takes a deep breath, and stares at the page of meticulously constructed formulas before him just as Sebastian Wilkes rounds the end the aisle and strolls towards him where he sits, Philip Anderson and Victor Trevor in tow.

"Hello, Sherly," Sebastian says brightly, a malevolent little smile playing on his lips. "Fancy meeting you here."

Sherlock turns his head slightly as if to study the next page of notes laid out on the desk, then affects a look of moderate surprise as he raises his gaze to meet Wilkes'. He stares at him for a moment, at the rather pleasant features that are sullied by the decidedly _un_ pleasant personality that lurks beneath them. He turns turns and regards Anderson's beady eyes and hawkish nose, then lets his gaze slide to Victor's face, eyes scanning quickly over caramel skin and high cheekbones and long curled lashes shielding impossibly dark eyes that refuse to meet his own. Looking back up at the ringleader of the group, Sherlock pulls the headphones out of his ears and stares at him expectantly.

"Is there something I can help you with, Sebastian?" he asks politely.

"Yeah, actually, there is," Wilkes says, stepping forward and casually pushing the papers on his desk aside and sitting down on the edge of it, crossing his long legs before crossing his arms over his chest. "Seems the new library assistant is causing quite a stir with the ladies in this school. Phil and Vic and I can't seem to work out what's got them so hot and bothered about the bloke."

"Perhaps you should find one of these _ladies_ you mention and ask them for an explanation," Sherlock suggests.

"That's what I'm doing right now, Holmes," Sebastian says snidely, looking very pleased with himself.

"Oh, I see," Sherlock answers with a slight roll of his eyes. "I should have made myself more clear. Perhaps you should go and ask your _girlfriend_ to tell you exactly what it was that she found so appealing about him while she was busy stalking him all around the building yesterday afternoon."

"What are you on about?" Sebastian asks, his disinterested tone at war with the slightly worried creases forming at the corners of his eyes. "Dora hasn't even laid eyes on the man. Told me so herself."

"Did she?" Sherlock inquires, his tone curious. "That version of events is a bit at odds with the fact that she and her two _best friends forever_ were squealing over how 'gorgeous' he was just one aisle away from here not twenty four hours ago. In _exactly_ the same place where you three were doing practically the same thing just now. What a coincidence."

"You're lying," Sebastian says, eyeing him angrily.

"I could be, that's true. Then again, Dora might be the one lying to you," Sherlock says lightly. "You might simply _ask_ her."

"Maybe I will," Wilkes fires back.

"An excellent plan," Sherlock agrees. "Though before you confront young Ms. Lancaster regarding her whereabouts yesterday afternoon, you may want to concoct a suitable alibi for your own."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Sebastian demands, raising a hand to worry at the collar of his button down shirt between his thumb and forefinger.

"I am merely suggesting that before you question your girlfriend about the veracity of her statements regarding her impressions of a certain recently hired library assistant, you should take care to conceal the purpling love bite that rests just above your collar bone so that Dora doesn't think to question where _you_ were at approximately the same time she was standing not ten feet from here and ogling someone who was not you."

"I'm not cheating on my girlfriend," Sebastian insists defensively, looking around at each of his friends and then back down at Sherlock. "Dora did that. She's possessive, you know. And a bit of a biter."

"I've no doubt that she is," Sherlock assures him. "But the depth of the color of the bruise in question would suggest that the precipitating _injury_ was suffered approximately twenty four hours ago. And while it is entirely possible that your girlfriend could have both been here in the library shrieking at improbably high decibel levels over the library assistant she has insisted never to have laid eyes on _and then_ very quickly met up with you for a heated snog within the same small window of time, it does seem unlikely. Unlikelier still, when one considers the miniscule abrasions occurring at very specific intervals apart on the surface of the skin over the hemorrhage in question, suggesting that the mouth that delivered the requisite suction belongs to someone wearing braces…and as I recall, Dora does not have braces on her teeth. But it seems to me that her younger sister does, isn't that right?"

"Now you listen here," Sebastian Wilkes says through clenched teeth, standing up suddenly and staring down at Sherlock with fury in his eyes. "I don't care how smart you think you are. You better not say a word to anyone about—"

"Oh don't worry," Sherlock says dismissively, picking up his headphones and sliding one speaker into his ear. "I have no interest in outing your minor indiscretions. We all have our secrets."

"Yeah, and yours is that you're a little faggot!" Sebastian growls, sweeping one hand over the surface of the desk and scattering his notes onto the floor.

"Really, Sebastian," Sherlock replies wearily. "That's hardly a secret."

"You're right about that," Sebastian snarls, lip curling up in a menacing grin as he looks over at his friends and then back down at Sherlock. "Everyone knows you're a cocksucker, practically gagging for it, really. Even tried putting the moves on Victor last year, but he showed you what happens when your kind barks up the wrong tree, didn't he? And you can be sure there's more where that came from if you say one word to anyone about—"

"Sebastian Wilkes," Martha Hudson says sternly, commanding the attention of the four boys she stares at from the head of the aisle not with volume, but with the quiet steel in her tone. "Is there a reason you're in my library at this moment and not in your customary seat at in the fourth row of Madame Renaud's French class?"

"I was just…" Sebastian begins, looking to his friends for help and finding them staring pointedly away. "I was just talking to Holmes here. That's all."

"Yes," Mrs. Hudson agrees icily. "I heard. I trust that your _conversation_ is now over?"

"Yeah," Wilkes agrees quickly. "All done here."

"Excellent," the librarian replies, the stony tone evaporating as she clasps her hands and rubs her palms together. "And as it appears that you and Mr. Anderson and Mr. Trevor are not otherwise engaged, you may come with me and put that free time to use by carrying several very heavy crates up three flights of stairs from the storage room in the basement."

Sherlock stares at her for a moment, lips tipping into the ghost of a thankful smile. He sees the twinkle in her eye, a quick flash of affection before she lifts her gaze to the three young men behind him.

"We haven't got all day," she tells them pleasantly. "Get a move on!"

She turns on her heel and walks back out into the library, and one by one Sebastian, Philip and Victor begin to follow. Sherlock watches each of them as they go, Sebastian Wilkes throwing one last baleful glance over his shoulder as he turns the corner, Philip Anderson not looking back at him at all before he disappears as well, and Victor Trevor looking straight ahead as he walks away, then stopping just before the end of the aisle. Sherlock watches him stand there, sees him start to turn back, catches his striking profile as he turns his head and looks over his shoulder, dark eyes tracing the distance between them on the floor before flitting up to meet his gaze—and for the briefest moment Sherlock remembers soft cinnamon skin and the silky slip of hair through his fingers and the wet slide of lips and the warmth of breath on heated flesh—before Victor drops his chin, turns away, and is gone.

Swallowing against the sudden tightness in his throat, Sherlock takes a deep breath and begins gathering up his notes and then depositing them back on the desk before beginning to put them back in order. He's nearly finished when a flash of movement at the end of the aisle catches his eye, and he looks up to see John Watson, backpack slung over one shoulder and an arm full of books, walking towards him.

"I haven't seen you at all since this morning," John says by way of greeting. "You been back here this whole time?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirms, wondering if John—like Mrs. Hudson—had heard the exchange between him and Sebastian Wilkes.

"Sorry I didn't have time to come and say hello," John tells him, rolling his left shoulder and wincing slightly. "Things were a bit busier than I expected. Didn't even have the chance to go to the loo until just five minutes ago. Do you know where Mrs. H. went?"

"She said something about the storage room," Sherlock says vaguely, breathing a silent sigh of relief that John had been out of the library for the last several minutes.

"Well damn," John says, looking down at his watch. "I was hoping I'd get to check in with her before I left—but if I don't go now I'll be late, well _more_ late, so I'd better get a move on."

"I'll tell her that you needed to leave," Sherlock offers.

"Thanks," John says with a smile, then begins to walk away before stopping short and turning back to face him, taking the top textbook off of the stack in his arms, and holding it out to Sherlock. "Oh, I almost forgot. Here."

Sherlock takes it from him, reading the title _: Principles of Organic & Biological Chemistry, 12th Edition. _He runs his fingers over the smooth cover, then looks up at John quizzically.

"I don't have that class until later this week, and I thought you might enjoy a little light reading," John tells him, with a shrug and a grin. "I've marked the section on aliphatic organic compounds, it might be shit compared to what you already know, but I figured you could find something useful in there."

Sherlock stares down at the book for a long moment, then back up at John who is looking at him expectantly.

"Thank you," Sherlock says softly. "I…this…is good. Thanks."

"You're welcome," John replies, a broad grin stealing over his friendly features, and he begins to back away down the aisle. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Don't read it all in one night!" And with a wave, he's gone.

Turning back to his desk, Sherlock carefully clears a space on the surface and sets the heavy book down. He opens the front cover, reads the hastily printed text scrawled onto the first page: _Property of John H. Watson._

He runs the pad of his finger over the name, feels the slight indentation where the tip of the biro pressed itself into the paper leaving a trail of ink that formed letters and words declaring that this book now belonged to someone. Settling his earbuds into place, he taps play and the song he'd paused earlier starts back up. He sets the phone aside and is about to open the book to the section John marked for him, when a flash of light from his mobile screen catches his eye.

 ** _NEW CONFESSION!_**

Sherlock picks up the phone, taps on the green skull, and the message begins to reveal itself:

 ** _iConfess: The hot blue eyed blond has left the building and the library is BORING again._**

Shaking his head, he watches the message disappear in a shower of sparks, then moves to set his phone back down on the desk…but at the last moment he picks it back up, opens a new session, taps out a short message, and then pauses for just the briefest of moments before pressing send. He slips his phone into his pocket, flips the textbook open, and starts to read.

At that very moment, mobile phones all over the building are alerting their owners that a _NEW CONFESSION_ is now available to view. And if they tap on the icon of the acid green skull with a small number "1" floating in the corner, they'll see the following message appear, briefly, on the screen:

 ** _iConfess: John Watson is not boring._**

* * *

 **If you enjoyed these first three chapters, I hope you'll come and read the rest!**

 **In order to comply with this site's rating standards, this fic (rated MA for some later scenes) can be found in its entirety at AO3, direct link available in my profile. THANKS SO MUCH FOR READING-I HOPE YOU'LL COME OVER AND CONTINUE THE ADVENTURE!**


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